


Winter Winds

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Fluff, Geralt of Rivia Doesn't Really Know What Feelings Are But That's Okay We'll Work On That, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:20:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23179867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Jaskier buries his nose into the folds of his scarf. It’s cold, but it’s not snowing. Heavy clouds sit over them, threatening and teasing rain or sleet or snow, but nothing ever falls. And he thanks every god he can think of for it. He can deal with being cold. But he hates being cold and wet. And Geralt has become increasingly grouchy in the last few days, especially with the turn of weather. Jaskier can only imagine that his complaints of both rain and cold wouldn’t sit well with the Witcher.---Have a quick Geralt & Jaskier Cuddling For Warmth Fic in this trying time x Stay Safe, and Stay At Home
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 468





	Winter Winds

Winter catches them all off guard. Farmers toil out in their fields, hauling in their crops before winter can claim them for itself. Cows and sheep are herded inside sheds, not properly fitted for such a sharp change in the weather. But cold winds only grow colder with each passing day, and it’s not even meant to be winter yet.

Jaskier tugs his cloak tighter around himself. A breeze blows up the road, shaking his bones. Geralt trudges beside him, holding Roach’s reins in one gloved hand while the other keeps a hold on his cloak, its lapels bunched at his chest. A rainstorm rolled in a few nights ago, and ever since then, the dirt roads have frozen over. Riding the mare on a surface like that would have been asking for trouble. So she plods along with them, snorting and shaking at any sharp change in the wind.

Jaskier buries his nose into the folds of his scarf. It’s _cold_ , but it’s not snowing. Heavy clouds sit over them, threatening and teasing rain or sleet or snow, but nothing ever falls. And he thanks every god he can think of for it. He can deal with being cold. But he hates being cold and _wet_. And Geralt has become increasingly grouchy in the last few days, especially with the turn of weather. Jaskier can only imagine that his complaints of both rain and cold wouldn’t sit well with the Witcher.

They’ve been walking on the same stretch of road for what feels like hours. They passed through a forest, and it was a welcomed shelter of sorts from the wind. But the forest eventually thinned with each step they took, and soon enough, they faced a large open plain of grassland.

The road is hard underneath his boots. And it’s been a while since he was able to feel his toes. Every step he takes feels numb. But he keeps moving. In all the years of travelling with the Witcher, he learned just as many lessons. One being to simply keep walking, especially if it’s cold: you won’t freeze solid if you just keep moving.

There should be a settlement within the next few miles or so. Even with the days getting shorter and the nights getting longer, the thought of camping out in the wilds is growing less and less appealing. He didn’t mind as much when the nights were short and warm. The stars and the moon were always on full display, lighting up the sky as best as they could. But now, the sky was always shades of dark grey or black: a colour that has slowly started to seep down into the landscape too. The once lush green grassland is thinning. Jaskier spots a small herd of deer grazing a few miles away, pulling up the last of the grassroots. The fawns use their elders for shelter, but with so little green left in the meadows, the herd will be on the move soon.

Jaskier sets his eyes back to the road. He sees Geralt cast a quick glance over his shoulder, back to him; checking to see if he’s still there, and hasn’t dropped dead a few miles back.

He lifts his head a bit. A silent _I’m alright_. Geralt nods and turns back. A woollen scarf covers Jaskier’s mouth and nose, just stopping below his eyes. The hood of his cloak covers the rest of his head: because his ears can get cold, no matter how much of a glamour sits on them. Though, he supposes that the glamour is for appearance's sake.

Town buildings breach the horizon. Roach must spot them first, as the mare’s ears flick forward. She lifts her head, jostling the reins in Geralt’s hand. They pick up the pace slightly, aiming to get to the town before they lose the light.

Though the town itself is small, appearing to be nothing more than a trading post, there are a handful of inns and taverns lining the road through the town. Each of them spread out a few buildings down from the last. A couple of people flitter through the street, bundling their scarves and jackets around themselves, but quickly slip inside buildings to get some shelter from the cold. Jaskier rubs his hands together. His gloves spared his fingertips from the worst of the winds, but they’re numb and every time he tries to fist his hands, they tingle.

The thought of a hot meal and bath and bed sends a faux shiver of warmth right through him.

A man and woman stand outside one of the taverns. The woman, a stocky lady with a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, gestures further down the road. Jaskier can’t make out what she says, but the man steps away with a small incline of his head before starting to walk away.

Jaskier nudges Geralt’s side. “She could be an innkeep.”

The Witcher looks at him out of the corner of his eye. He hums: a noise almost entirely lost by the wind, but Jaskier manages to hear it. They wander over to the building. It looks like all the rest of them: three-storied with whitewashed walls, and dark wooden frames. A sign hangs over the door, swaying with each breath of wind that tumbles up the street.

The woman sets her hands on her hips. When she spots them coming, she lifts her chin. “Are youse alright?” she calls out.

Jaskier pulls down the scarf from around his face. “Do you have any rooms available?” he asks as nicely as he can. But his teeth chatter and his body is trembling.

The innkeep regards them both for a moment. Everything about her, from her appearance to her posture, tells him that she’s weathered her fair share of winters. She eventually nods. “I’ve got a few left, aye.” Her eyes drift over to Roach. “There should be a stall left in the stable out back. The lads will see to it that she’s fed and warm.”

And something flickers over Geralt’s face that could very well be gratitude. It’s brief, and gone just as quickly as it appeared. But the way to earn the Witcher’s favour is to respect his horse – something Jaskier learned many moons ago.

Some stablehands appear at the side of the tavern, beckoning Geralt to follow.

“Come with me, lad,” the woman says to Jaskier. “We’ll get you warmed up.”

Jaskier follows the woman inside. As soon as the door shuts behind him, warmth washes over his body. His cloak and scarf and gloves are almost too much, all of a sudden. A large fire pit sits in the middle of the tavern, with patrons sitting at its edge, warming their backs. Jaskier peels off his gloves and untangles the scarf from around his head. It’s a very welcome break from the wind. Even the trees half a league back didn’t do much to stop their bite.

He reaches into his cloak pocket for his coin purse. “It’s usually five silver pieces for the night,” the innkeep says over her shoulder. She leads them straight through the tavern to a large wooden bar. As she rounds it, her shoulders go lax. “But with the weather being as bad as it is, I’ll take three.”

Jaskier tilts his head.

“A lot of merchants pass through this town, lad,” she tells him quietly, leaning her forearms on the bar. “Some of them were caught off-guard by this whole cold snap. They can’t travel until it thaws, and they have nowhere to stay.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Jaskier replies, fishing the coins out of the purse. “Just the one room will be fine.”

If the woman thinks anything of two men sharing the one room, she says nothing of it. Instead, she lifts a shoulder. “We all have to look after each other when the weather takes a turn,” she says as if it were the simplest fact of life. She slides his coin towards her. “We have stew and steak pies fresh out of the kitchen. If you or your travelling companion need a bath brought up, just tell me or one of the other maids and we’ll sort that out.”

If they weren’t low on coin – coin that still had to carry them towards Kaer Morhen for the deep winter – he would leave the woman with some of it.

And he’s too exhausted to try and play a couple of songs for them too. His fingers might be too numb for plucking at lute strings anyway. He inclines his head. “Thank you for everything,” he says softly. The woman offers him a small smile before waving her hand towards one of the free booths near the fire. By the time Jaskier slides into it, setting his lute down beside him, a young serving girl wanders over. “What would you like to eat?”

“Stew will be fine, thank you.”

By the time two bowls of stew and half a loaf of bread are placed in front of him, Geralt joins him. A few flecks of water are on his cloak. Jaskier frowns. “Is it raining?”

“Sleet,” Geralt corrects, cupping the bowl of stew with his hands and letting them warm.

Jaskier nods, but goes back to eating. He should slow down. Their food thinned out in the last few days, but they still had enough cured meats and stale bread to carry them through from one day to the next. But a bowl of venison stew sits in front of him, thick and full of soft vegetables. The bread must be freshly baked; the crust is crisp and the inside is soft and pillowy. He can’t help taking large mouthfuls, swallowing them down without much chewing. With every spoonful, he can feel warmth returning into his bones.

The large fire pit in the middle of the tavern helps. Even with so many patrons perched around the lip of it, heat floats out.

Geralt is a bit more reserved. Jaskier looks up at the Witcher every so often, regarding him quietly. He makes his food last longer, using the bread to mop up any of the stew still left at the bottom of his bowl. But then again, he’s lived so many years on the Path, and old habits are hard to shake off.

Jaskier wipes the corner of his mouth. “How far away is Kaer Morhen now?”

“It depends,” Geralt replies. “If the rain and snow stay away, we’ll be there in two days.”

Home has been calling to him. It was a strange thing to see. One day, something in the air must have changed. Geralt sat up a bit straighter when they were gathered around a campfire outside of Redania. He turned his perked ears to the wind.

Within a few days, Jaskier found himself starting the long walk to the Wolf’s den.

A sombre sort of mood has settled over the town. With the winds beginning to howl outside, those around the fire pit shuffler closer to the heat. Jaskier glances over to the tavern’s door. A particularly strong wind opens it slightly, letting in a wisp of cold air. Although it doesn’t reach their booth, he can’t help but shiver. Geralt regards him quietly for a moment. “Are you still cold?”

Jaskier finishes the last of his food. With a full stomach, tiredness starts to tug at him. He shakes his head. “Not really.”

Geralt nods, but looks down at his tankard instead of chasing conversation.

* * *

He isn’t sure if he even actually fell asleep in the first place. He must have. Outside the grim-rimmed window, the sky has turned dark. Jaskier blinks, trying to get his eyes to focus. As he lifts his head from the pillow, he notices how cold the tip of his nose is. Short tingles shoot up his nose when he wrinkles it.

It’s better than being outside. Anything is better than being outside. In the time since they slipped into bed and drifted off to sleep, the wind has only gotten worse. Jaskier rubs at his face, hissing slightly at how cold the tips of his fingers are. He curls his hands into fists, keeping them close to his chest.

The bed is laden with linen blankets, down feather quilts, and furs. Even though the inn is one of the smaller ones within the town, they still have hearths in their walls: albeit, they're small, cobblestone things with not much kindling stored beside it. Their fire has started to ebb away, and even though two blocks of dried wood sit by the hearth, Jaskier really doesn’t want to pad over cold floorboards to get the fire going again.

He brings his knees up towards himself, curling in on himself to try and warm up a bit. Wind whistles through the small gaps in the wooden walls; but _it’s better than being outside_.

There’s a short huff of breath from behind him. Suddenly, the mattress shifts and a firm arm coils its way around him. Geralt is a walking furnace: a fact Jaskier found out very quickly when they had to start sharing bed. It was always platonically at first: though, even that word didn’t really fit right. Sometimes they didn’t have enough coin for two beds. And out on the road, it was just easier to sleep within an arm’s reach of the other person for a sense of security but also for warmth, especially when winter winds started to blow in from the mountains.

A sigh buries into the back of his neck. “You’re shaking like a leaf,” Geralt mumbles against skin.

Jaskier makes a noise in the back of his throat: one he tries to swallow back down. “Yes, well, we aren’t all blessed with altered blood like you to keep us warm.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything else. His arm is like an anchor, keeping him pinned to the bed. All thoughts of stepping out of their den to stoke the fire back up goes out the window – Jaskier feels the plumes of warmth seep into his back. Even with every puff of breath Geralt sighs into the back of his neck, he can feel the trembles leaving his body.

Sleep takes its time coming back to him though. For all the comfort he finds encased in his Witcher’s arms, with a warm cocoon around them both of sheets and furs, he can’t slip back to sleep.

He turns his head slightly, looking over his shoulder. Geralt’s breathing hasn’t changed. It’s not as slow or deep as it would be if he were asleep. He’s not surprised, then, to see two amber coloured eyes blinking back at him through the darkness, pupils widened.

“Everything alright?” Jaskier says quietly. Even then, it sounds too loud in the otherwise quiet room. Though, the wind gives another whining howl through the walls.

Geralt hums. “Just...” His arm tightens around Jaskier’s waist. “You seemed cold.”

A flash of heat blooms over the bard’s face. It’s followed by a small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips. “Your concern for my wellbeing is always appreciated.”

Geralt’s eyes slip closed. “I don’t want to bother the innkeep with a dead, frozen body in the morning,” he grunts, letting out a long sigh.

Jaskier barely stops his eyes from rolling back in his head. “Am I going to have this all winter? You being more brutish than usual?”

Geralt makes a noise. When a quiet moment passes between them, Jaskier sighs. He turns in Geralt’s hold, shuffling around until he has his head buried in the crook of the Witcher’s neck. Coiled firmly around each other, Geralt makes a few last adjustments to their nest of blankets, making sure that they’re tucked in so now nipping wind can get in.

It takes a minute for them to settle. Sleep stands to the corner of the room, like a stranger, but Jaskier can feel it tugging at him. He buries his nose into the arch of Geralt’s throat, catching the faint scent of tree pine. It’s all so familiar: how their bodies slot together, how his skin pebbles and rises to Geralt’s touch. How he could be able to pick out Geralt’s voice or scent in a crowd of hundreds of strangers.

He can’t remember what his life was like before the familiarity.

A large hand rubs up and down his back, warming up his skin again. He barely swallows the groan that tries to clamber out of his throat. “If the roads are clear, we’ll head out in the morning,” Geralt’s voice rumbles through his chest. “But get some sleep. We still have a long way to walk.”

**Author's Note:**

> *hauls this out of my laptop's storage and flings it into the arena*
> 
> Have a Soft!Boys Cuddling For Warmth fic in this trying time x I hope everyone is well and safe. A very long story short, I'm going to be writing a lot more due to a lockdown in my country - as if I wasn't writing a lot about these men already, lol. But without a job to go to for the foreseeable future, I'll be spending more time trying to get fics out x
> 
> tumblrs  
> yourqueenforayear (utter nonsense) | agoodgoddamnshot (writings)


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